


my heart is safe with you

by annabeth_writes



Series: Birthday Month Celebration 2019 [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Mild Language, Reunions, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-04-23 20:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19158583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_writes/pseuds/annabeth_writes
Summary: After her betrothal to Harry Hardyng falls through, Alayne's father betroths her to a Targaryen prince. Little do she and Littlefinger know, he is not what they imagined.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second of my birthday month celebration fics! This is only the prologue and the rest of the chapters will be much longer, I promise. I hope that you all enjoy this one!
> 
> Title: Daydream - Ruelle

“I don’t understand.”

Alayne held the letter in her hands, having read the fine script through twice before speaking at all. Though she understood every word, she couldn’t quite grasp its meaning. So long had she planned to wed Harry only for it to fail as he decided that a bastard was beneath him, though the truth of the matter would have made his insult laughable if it wasn’t so humiliating. Now she held a letter that described a new offer of marriage. Not to a knight or a lord, but to a prince. Not just any prince, but the queen’s nephew.

“A worthy match, I believe,” Petyr said, looking as though he’d planned this all along.

“You said that the prince is a pretender,” Alayne said, looking up at him with a frown. “That the true Aegon Targaryen died as a babe.”

“The realm believes him to be a prince, sweetling,” he said, plucking the letter from her hands before reaching up to gently tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “Daenerys Targaryen has accepted him as her nephew and together they need as big an army as they can muster if they are going to take the throne from the Lannisters. It matters little what blood runs through his veins when he can gain the support of the Vale for her through marriage, don’t you think?”

“But-”

Petyr clicked his tongue, his thumb stroking over her cheek.

“You worry too much, Alayne,” he said, his grey-green eyes crinkling with amusement. “You will be a princess, don’t you see it?”

_ You said I would be a queen. _

She did not dare to speak the words, nodding her head obediently. As he leaned in, Alayne closed her eyes and pretended as if she was anywhere else, standing perfectly still as he placed a kiss upon her lips.

“Would you inform the kitchens that I will take my supper here?” her father asked as he stepped away. “I have many letters to write.”

Giving him a curtsy, Alayne assured him that she would before turning to leave his solar. As she walked along the corridor, she felt a curious relief in her chest. If Daenerys Targaryen needed forces to win the throne, then her wedding would have to be as soon as possible. Alayne would be free of the Vale, given the chance to shed the imposter’s mask she’d worn for so long. She may well have the chance to be Sansa Stark again very soon.

*

It wasn’t a coincidence that had the Targaryen war camp so close to the Vale. Alayne knew that. Daenerys must have begun marching her army there as soon as she began corresponding with Petyr. They were only a three-day ride from the Gates of the Moon, delivering Alayne to the midst of endless tents and thousands of soldiers, both foreign and Westerosi, far sooner than she thought to be there. A company of ten Unsullied soldiers led by a man that she did not recognize met them a few miles away from the camp, offering to lead them directly to Daenerys’ tent. As they rode, Alayne could not help but think that she should recognize the man at the lead. Her frown must have shown on her face because Petyr guided his horse closer to her.

“You look bothered, sweetling,” he said quietly.

“That man…” she said, trailing off as she shook her head. “His voice bears traces of the North but you told me that the queen has no allies from the North. How did he come to be here?”

“That is Jorah Mormont,” Petyr said, the name stirring up a familiarity within her. “Ned Stark passed a sentence of execution when he was caught selling poachers into slavery and he fled to Essos.”

Alayne’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at the back of the man’s head. Did he see any trace of the North in her? Had her voice lost all connection to it? Did she blend in so well that he would never see the blood of Ned Stark in her? She banished the thoughts as soon as they passed through her mind, pushing Sansa Stark away as quickly as she’d come forth. It was too dangerous to be Sansa. She couldn’t be certain of her safety. Not here, amidst soldiers and knights who could have the same level of honor as those in King’s Landing. Not when anyone could take her in the night and ransom her to Cersei.

They rode on and on, through the tents all the way to the largest of them. Targaryen banners surrounded the tent as well as countless guard, all there to keep their queen safe. As she dismounted her horse, brushing off her traveling gown and trying her best to breathe in and out evenly, a flash of white passed through the corner of her eye and Alayne looked around, expecting to see something there. Yet all she saw were tents, covered in dust and nowhere near the white that she’d seen.

“Alayne?”

She was hesitant to tear her eyes away, feeling as if it was incredibly important that she see whatever it was, yet Alayne turned towards his voice.

“Yes Father?”

Petyr tilted his head towards the tent before holding his arm out in offering. Alayne took it, allowing him to guide her forward. The two closest guards parted the flaps of the tent, allowing them to duck inside. It was as big as Alayne expected, with furniture carefully arranged and a pile of furs and pillows arranged next to the lowest of the braziers. It reminded her of the warmest rooms in Winterfell, the heat doing well to keep out the cold beyond. Winter was coming, of that Alayne was certain. Even if the Citadel hadn’t sent out their white ravens yet. There was no one within this part of the tent, though it was sectioned off and she could hear voices beyond another flap.

“Your Grace?” Jorah Mormont called out.

The voices ceased and the scrape of steps over the hard ground reached her ears as she pulled her arm away from her father’s hold to wring her hands nervously. A beautiful woman with high cheekbones and smooth skin stepped through first, moving to the side as she opened her mouth to speak, staring directly at Alayne and Petyr.

“You have the honor of being in the presence of  Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Lady of Dragonstone, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons.”

Alayne stared at the woman throughout the listing of Daenerys’ titles only to watch as the woman herself stepped out. She was shorter than Alayne expected, though her silver-gold hair and violet eyes marked her as a true Targaryen. Yet it was not she that drew Alayne’s gaze, but those who followed her. Her nerves felt all the more affected at the sight of him, a match for his supposed aunt in every way, from his hair to his pale skin and otherworldly look. Her face paled utterly when she saw who followed him.

Lord Varys was first, just as mysterious as she remembered from King’s Landing. Tyrion Lannister, of all people, followed shortly after him. Alayne felt Petyr grow stiff next to her and wondered if he could have truly known nothing of this. Didn’t he pride himself on all his spies? Wouldn’t he have known that two men almost guaranteed to recognize her accompanied Daenerys? Did he think that the queen had left them on Dragonstone to run it in her absence? Yet for all the fear that the sight of them struck deep within her, it was the appearance of the last man that truly affected her.

“Lord Baelish,” Daenerys said, accepting his bow with a nod of her head.

Alayne could not bring herself to look to the other woman, her eyes fixed upon the dark hair and grey eyes of the last person she ever expected to see. He’d grown, likely taller than even her father now, with a dark beard covering his jaw and scars surrounding his eyes. Yet she could see the brother that she knew in his face.

_ Not your brother, _ a voice hissed in her head.  _ Ned Stark was not your father. You are Alayne. Alayne Stone. Not Sansa Stark. _

“Lady Alayne.”

Even as she heard the queen repeat her name once Petyr introduced her, she still could not tear her eyes away from him.

“Alayne,” Petyr said, his voice nearly sharp as he reached out to grasp her arm.

She almost flinched away from him, blinking her eyes and gazing around at them all dazedly. She could see Tyrion putting the pieces together and Varys looked as unperturbed as ever.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” Alayne said softly, lowering herself into an altogether clumsy curtsy on unsteady feet.

“It’s quite alright, Lady Alayne,” Daenerys said, her face showing her amusement. “I know that it is overwhelming to meet one’s intended at first. Let me present you to your betrothed, Prince Jon of House Targaryen.”

Alayne’s eyes slipped closed as she stood, feeling closer and closer to the edge. She hung onto her mask by a tenuous thread, knowing that she could not lose it all now.

“Gods,” she heard Tyrion say, a few more choice curses following.

“You’ve lost your touch, my old friend,” Varys said, something like sympathy flitting through his eyes as he looked at Sansa.

_ Alayne! You must be Alayne! _

Daenerys looked between her advisors with confusion clear on her face, clearly questioning what they meant by their vague words. Aegon looked rather unconcerned yet it was Jon that she looked to. His eyes were fixed upon her, confusion in their depths.

“Hello, my prince,” she managed to say as darkness closed in on the edges of her vision.

As if the sound of her voice addressing him was all that it took, realization came over his face like a curtain had been lifted away.

“Sansa?”

That was all that it took to shatter the false identity that she wore. Sansa Stark was reborn. Before she could say a single word, the darkness overtook her as she collapsed to the ground in a dead faint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the wonderful response to the first chapter! I hope that you'll enjoy the rest of what I have in store!

The first thing that she felt was a soft cushion beneath her. The next was a cool touch to her forehead, along with the soft breaths of someone sitting nearby. Her first instinct was to panic, to cringe away from the unknown person, yet she forced herself to remain perfectly still as everything came flooding back. Sansa, that was her name. Sansa. Not Alayne. Petyr’s game had been discovered, not only by Daenerys and Aegon Targaryen but by those who accompanied them. Tyrion, Varys, and Jon.  _ Jon. _ Sansa sat up with a gasp, remembering that she’d seen his painfully familiar face.

The woman sitting by her side startled at her sudden movement, the wet cloth she’d been dabbing over Sansa’s forehead falling to the ground. Sansa recognized her as the one who announced the queen’s many titles, her dark brown eyes wide and her lips parted in shock. An apology rose in her throat by habit yet died upon her lips as the sound of voices reached her ears. Loud enough to be heard and each of them as agitated as the last. Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins at the sound of her name amidst it all, her head pulsing with pain.

“You are safe here, my lady,” the woman said, undoubtedly seeing the fear written across her face as she reached out to her.

Sansa flinched away, her mind spinning as she gripped at the cushioned lounge she sat upon in another section of the tent. Someone must have carried her here after she fainted. Had they taken Petyr away? Or was he arguing with the rest of them?

“I am Missandei,” the woman said, distracting her from the others. “You are the prince’s cousin, are you not?”

Sansa stared at her with wide eyes, unable to quite wrap her mind around her words. Yes, Daenerys had introduced him differently. Prince Jon Targaryen. A Targaryen. The man she thought to be her bastard brother. Jon’s voice cut through the rest even as they spoke over one another, his accent so different from the others. So incredibly  _ northern _ in a way that struck at her chest like a fist, bringing tears to her eyes. Sansa inhaled shakily, a sob catching in her throat and forcing its way from her mouth.

Then she heard another familiar voice. Yohn Royce, though she didn’t know how he came to be there? Had he been there all along? Her father was always so worried about his interference in his plans.  _ No, not my father. I am the blood of Ned Stark, the daughter of Winterfell. _ His presence could only mean one thing. He found an audience to hear his suspicions. Missandei rose to her feet, a look of indecision on her face. Sansa stared at her, fearing what she meant to do. Only when she heard the mention of another name - her Aunt Lysa’s name - did she scramble to her own feet in alarm.

Tyrion was asking about the manner of her death, a certain impression in his voice as if he suspected the truth without having to be told. Did he resent Sansa for fleeing Joffrey’s wedding and leaving him to face Cersei’s wrath? Did Jon hate her for how she treated him when they were children? Would Daenerys punish her for her father’s part in the rebellion that put Robert Baratheon on the throne and sent her into exile across the Narrow Sea? Would they all be happy to see her bleed?

Missandei turned towards the flap that separated them from the rest, undoubtedly to fetch her queen now that Sansa was awake. As soon as she disappeared, interrupting the dispute, Sansa turned on the spot to seek an exit. Daenerys may have gathered an army about her but an enemy could very well sneak into camp to put an end to her war by killing her alone. She wouldn’t put it above the queen to have another way out of her tents. Hitching her skirts up, Sansa darted around furniture and found a fastened flap near the bed, tearing it open with shaking fingers before darting out into the cold.

The tent was surrounded, not only by other tents but by passing soldiers both Westerosi and foreign, eyeing her curiously as she began running. Her dark hair streamed out behind her, undone from the pins that held it up before. Sansa had no inkling of where to go, only that she would not submit to her death so easily. Not after all she’d done to stay alive. If they caught her and Daenerys condemned her to burn by dragonfire, at least she would know that she did what she could instead of helplessly accepting her fate.

Shouts rose up behind her once her absence was discovered, her name filling the air as they commanded for someone to find her. Tears wet her cheeks as her breathing grew labored and her chest tight. She hadn’t run this way in ages, yet she could not bring herself to slow even as her legs burned with the effort. Terror filled her as the soldiers began trying to stop her, blocking her from running through the tents and surrounding her before she could make it to the edge of the camp.

Sansa fought the urge to fall to her knees and scream, backing away as they drew ever closer, their faces blurred and their weapons so easy to draw. Joffrey’s cruel laughter filled her head, she remembered the Kingsguard’s vicious beating, their fists driving in the stomach and their swords laying agonizing blows upon her back. Shaking her head desperately, Sansa held her hands up in a silent plea for them to leave her be. Her ragged breaths were interlaced with choking sobs, feeling as if the Stranger himself was breathing down her neck.

Then she saw the white blur clear the soldiers’ heads with little effort, landing beside her with a soft thump.

A gasp passed through her lips yet she didn’t stumble away, her eyes growing wide at the sight of the direwolf. He stood nearly as tall as a horse, his teeth bared in a silent growl not aimed at Sansa, but at the soldiers that surrounded her. They moved further away instead of closer, clearly fearful of the beast that stood as her guardian. Sansa could have cried out in joy at seeing him, the panicked claws receding from her chest as she reached up with a shaking hand, stroking her fingers over his coarse fur.

“Ghost,” she whispered, almost unable to believe it.

His head turned, the snarl disappearing from his face as he fixed his blood red eyes upon her. Sansa let out another sob, yet a smile pulled at her lips as she felt her legs grow weak, giving out beneath her. She fell to her knees, her hand clapping over her mouth as she muffled another sob. It was impossible, knowing that Lady might have grown to this size if she hadn’t been taken from Sansa’s side far too soon. Ghost shifted, ducking his head down to lick at her tear-stained cheeks before falling to his belly beside her.

Choking out a near laugh, Sansa leaned forward until her face was buried in his side, her hands fisting at his fur. He didn’t move at all or snap at her as she collapsed into him, her energy draining away and leaving her too tired to move. Her body trembled as her tears wet his fur, paying little attention to those who surrounded them. Ghost wouldn’t let them near her. Sansa had faith enough in that. She may not have been his master but he knew Stark blood, of that she was certain.

A scuffle sounded behind her and she didn’t have to look up to know that someone had broken through the circle of soldiers. Determined steps crossed the hard ground, though Ghost did nothing to stop their approach, letting Sansa know exactly who it must be. Sure enough, she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and hesitantly lifted her head only to see Jon’s concerned face so close, just as familiar and yet different all the same. Sansa stared at him, at a loss for words.

Raising her hand as slowly as she’d done with Ghost, she brushed her fingers over his cheek, feeling the bristle of his beard beneath her palm and tracing one of the scars that surrounded his eyes with her thumb. He was solid and warm beneath her touch. Sansa could still hardly believe it, that he was truly here. Petyr told her that he died, named Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and then betrayed by his brothers at the Wall. Yet he was here, as real as can be and a prince at that.

“Jon,” she breathed out.

As if his name on her lips was all that he needed to hear, Jon pulled her into his arms without another moment of hesitation. Sansa clutched at him desperately as his arm wrapped around her waist and his other hand gently cupped the back of her head.

“Sansa,” he whispered, traces of awe in his voice as if he couldn’t quite believe it either. “Why did you run?”

Shame filled her as a fresh wave of tears stung at her eyes.

“I thought that I might be killed,” Sansa confessed, his hands pulling her all the closer at her words and drawing a sob out of her. “I haven’t been safe in so long, Jon.”

He turned his head with a soft sigh, his lips brushing over her temple.

“You’re safe now,” Jon murmured, his words layered with meaning and truth. “You’re safe.”

Sansa tucked her face into his shoulder, letting her tears fall freely for the first time in years. She knew somewhere deep inside that they were safe with him, above all others.

*****

Ghost wouldn’t leave her side, even as she curled in a chair in Jon’s tent with his furs wrapped about her shoulders. Sansa felt comforted by his warm weight against her legs, working her way through a bowl of warm stew as she waited anxiously for Jon to return. He’d slipped away to settle Daenerys and the others, knowing that they’d be riled by her attempt to escape. Sansa was grateful that he hadn’t brought her along to explain herself, having little desire to face not only the queen but Prince Aegon, Tyrion, and Varys as well. Ghost settled his chin on her knee, as if he could sense her distress at the very thought of seeing them again.

“You’ve kept him safe, haven’t you?” Sansa murmured with a small smile, scratching at his ears.

“More than any other.”

Her eyes snapped up as Jon ducked through the tent flap, looking relieved to see her still sitting there. Sansa knew she deserved his reservations for fleeing the first time yet couldn’t help but feel the same as she let her eyes take him in. He was lean yet still looked strong, a sword fastened at his waist that she didn’t recognize, the pommel shaped like a direwolf with Ghost’s coloring. His resemblance to her father was altogether uncanny yet she knew that the northern blood in his veins didn’t come from Ned Stark.

“It’s Aunt Lyanna, isn’t it?” Sansa asked, causing him to still in place. “Your mother?”

Jon’s eyes met hers, a guarded look in them as he jerked his head in a single nod.

“It’s all that makes sense,” she said, leaning back in the chair. “Father must have lied to keep you safe from Robert Baratheon. He might have killed you if he knew the truth.”

Though she expected little, no answer came to her words and she fell silent as she watched him unfasten his sword belt to lay it across the chest at the end of his cot.

“Howland Reed came to help us fight north of the Wall,” Jon finally said, his voice distant and quiet. “He told me the truth of that day. How my mother died in a bed soaked in her own blood after giving birth to me. She didn’t even have time to name me.”

“It isn’t your fault,” Sansa said, setting aside the half-eaten bowl of stew as she watched him.

“No,” he huffed, rubbing at his jaw as he glanced her way. “But it happened all the same.”

She wished that there was more to say, to take away the deep sorrow in his eyes, but Sansa knew that there was little she could do.

“Was it the wildlings you were fighting?” she asked curiously, earning a confused look. “North of the Wall?”

Jon’s brow furrowed as he looked at her as if she’d gone mad.

“Did Littlefinger tell you nothing?”

Sansa couldn’t help but flinch at the sound of his moniker, her eyes growing wide. Jon looked on the verge of apologizing but she spoke before he could.

“Where is he?”

Jon’s face darkened at the question, something about the glint in his eyes sending a thrill throughout her body.

“Kept under guard in the camp,” he said, walking over to take the other chair that sat near the glowing brazier. “Awaiting my aunt’s judgement.”

She should have expected that and wondered if there was ever going to be a betrothal or if it was all a trick to bring him into the heart of the Targaryen camp. If Lord Royce had anything to do with it, they could have been planning it for quite a while. With the rest of the Lords Declarant, he could deliver the knights of the Vale to Daenerys’ aid for one thing in return. Petyr’s removal from power.

“For which of his crimes?” Sansa asked, her voice quiet.

“Which do you know about?”

She considered his question carefully, tilting her head down to watch as Ghost laid his head on his paws.

“Is that why I’m here?” she asked, twisting her fingers in her lap. “Why you drew both of us to this camp with the promise of a betrothal? So that I could be a witness?”

“We didn’t know.”

Sansa closed her eyes, nodding her head. There was little chance that they could have known. Petyr Baelish’s bastard daughter would have been a means to an end.

“I know more than some,” she admitted. “Likely less than Lord Varys.”

“He helped kill your father.”

Her breath caught in her throat, the memory of her father kneeling on Baelor’s steps passing through her mind. Cold horror grasped at her heart, making her breaths come out in short, shaking gasps.

“He-” she cut off, as she fisted her hands in the borrowed cloak she wore.

“He conspired with the Lannisters to charge him with treason against Joffrey,” Jon said, his voice laced with simmering anger.

Sansa pressed her lips together, shaking her head.

“He made me call him ‘Father,’” she said, her stomach twisting. “He killed my aunt, he hid me away, he forced his kisses on me and-”

She saw Jon stiffen out of the corner of her eye and grew silent again, leaning forward to bury her face in her hands. A moment passed in tense silence before Jon’s hand settled over her shoulder once more, a comforting weight that helped her breathe easily once more. Dropping her hands, she turned her head to meet his gaze as her hands dropped away.

“I want to go home, Jon,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

He looked at her with a deep understanding, as if it was something he’d thought many times before.

“We never should have left,” Jon said.

Sansa reached up, pulling his hand from her shoulder to her lap to clasp it between both of her own.

“I’ll tell you my story if you tell me yours,” she said, weary yet curious about what brought him here.

The smallest of smiles pulled at Jon’s lips as he squeezed his hand lightly around hers.

“It may take all night,” he warned her.

“I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

*****

A heavy apprehension settled in the pit of her stomach as she approached Daenerys’ tent for a second time in as many days. This time, Sansa was led by a far more preferable escort in the direwolf at her side. Ghost remained with her even when she left Jon’s tent the night before for the one that was now set aside for her. A few of the queen’s guards accompanied her as well but kept a wary distance from Ghost, much to her relief. As she stepped through the opening, it was nearly impossible not to panic at the sight of several sets of eyes fixed upon her. Sansa wound her fingers in Ghost’s fur, managing a low curtsy.

“Rise, Lady Stark,” Daenerys said formally.

Sansa lifted her head, seeing the curiosity on her face and preferring it to blame or anger.

“Your Grace,” she said quietly.

“Jon explained the reasons behind your attempted escape,” Daenerys said, a cool distance to her voice. “You have nothing to fear from anyone in this camp. I assure you of that.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said, her eyes flitted to Jon very briefly.

Aegon stood at Daenerys’ right while Jon took up the spot to her left, looking as different as night and day from the other two Targaryens. It was difficult to see any sort of resemblance between them and Sansa almost felt relieved for it.

“I understand that you are willing to serve as a witness in Lord Baelish’s trial,” Daenerys acknowledged, clasping her hands before her.

Sansa nodded slowly, earning a smile from the other woman.

“We are grateful for that,” Daenerys said, glancing around at the others before looking back at her. “There is the question of your future. I am aware that you are the last remaining heir to Winterfell and as such, you will be important to the realm in the years to come and an especially important ally to us now.”

Though it was presumptuous of her to assume that Sansa intended to deliver the North to her cause, even more so since she hadn’t claimed it in her own name yet, Sansa remained quiet and intent on listening, knowing that she would learn more by hearing than by speaking.

“I know that you were drawn here with the promise of a betrothal and I intend to keep that promise. My Hand is in need of a wife and it is my understanding that you two were wed once before.”

Sansa felt the color drain from her face as tension rose in the tent, everyone’s eyes flitting from her to the queen. Even Tyrion seemed surprised at her suggestion, though there was a faint glint in his eyes that spoke of his true ambition. He would not object to the idea of it. Daenerys stared at Sansa expectantly yet it was not her voice that rang through the air.

“No.”

All eyes fell upon Jon, his face bloodless yet his eyes storming as he stared at his aunt.

“This is necessary, nephew,” Daenerys said, her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Marriage alliances can be every bit as important as battles when it comes to war, so I’ve been told.”

“Then give her what you promised her from the beginning,” Jon said, his voice quiet yet unyielding. “A betrothal to a prince. It is no less than what she deserves, as heir to one of the oldest and greatest houses in Westeros.”

Sansa’s eyes grew wide at his words, wondering if he was truly suggesting what she thought he might have been. A laugh passed through Prince Aegon’s lips, sounding almost mocking to her ears.

“I’ve already agreed to marry our aunt, brother,” he said, his words chafing at Sansa as she could still remember Robb’s warm regard for Jon in a way that was entirely opposite to the silver-haired man before her.

Jon looked even less pleased, his eyes growing hard and cold.

“I wasn’t talking about you,  _ brother _ ,” he said, determination taking root in his voice.

If it weren’t for Ghost’s silent presence at her side, Sansa wondered if she might have fainted again as her knees grew weak.

“I will wed my cousin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear what you all think about this.
> 
> There will be longer chapters from here on out, I promise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that my schedule is off right now. I've had a difficult last few days with a lot to contend with. I will do my best to catch up and my intent is still to finish this fic by Saturday.
> 
> I love you all. Thank you so much for your wonderful comments. <3

Sansa could remember how her mother used to walk the grounds of Winterfell. Her head was always held high, her shoulders straight and her steps unfaltering. She commanded a certain respect, even as a southron lady in the North. No one dared to see her as anything apart from Lady Stark. Highborn and beautiful and exactly where she was meant to be. Sansa couldn’t help but wonder what those around her saw as she crossed the camp, the hem of her gown brushing over the dusty ground as she carried an empty jug in one hand and a chunk of lye soap in the other.

Did they see the girl she was in Winterfell, young and naive with her head full of songs? Or the prisoner she’d been in King’s Landing, a caged little bird with her wings strapped down by those around her? Perhaps the bastard of the Vale, content to go unnoticed in the background, ever listening and learning? Did they see a woman she did not yet know? A version of Sansa Stark that hadn’t yet been seen before? She’d been so many people over the past several years. How was she to know which of them to be now?

She could hear the rush of the river calling out to her Tully blood, drawing her ever closer. They had passed the Trident the day before and were camped along the River Road, near to the Red Fork. It was that river that she approached, cool to the touch as she sank to her knees beside it. Ghost dipped his nose towards the water, lapping it up eagerly. At her other side was a curious man, his clothing altogether different from the other brothers that accompanied Jon now that the Wall had fallen.

“Hand it over,” Satin said, dropping down beside her without hesitation.

Though Sansa still felt rather taken aback by his familiar attitude, she would not deny herself whatever help he might offer. He’d served as Jon’s steward when he was Lord Commander and even now attended to him faithfully, going so far as to offer her his service when she needed it, such as now.

“I know it’s rather harsh,” she said, placing the lye soap in his palm. “I don’t know what else will wash it out.”

“It’ll cause little harm, m’lady,” Satin said, his voice laced with certainty.

Though she had her doubts, Sansa ducked her head towards the water and gathered her hair over it until the ends of it dipped into the water. A sharp gasp slipped past her lips as Satin dipped the jug into the water, pouring it over her head to wet her hair in its entirety. A shiver rose up within her, her hands curling into fists as he did it several more times to ensure it was wet enough to be washed. Only then did he dip the lye soap into the river, taking it to her hair with determination.

Sansa kept herself as still as possible, not wanting to stain the gown she wore as he worked the soap through her strands, gentle yet thorough. As he wrung her hair out, she opened her eyes to watch as the dye bled into the water, turning it dark before the color rushed away. It lasted longer than she hoped it might, minutes passing by slowly as her back and knees began aching. Her sigh of relief was drowned out by the rush of water as Satin rinsed the remnants of soap from her hair, ensuring he got every bit of it before offering her a cloth to wring it out.

“You could’ve had a bath to do this, you know?” Satin asked as she wrung every bit of water from it that she could.

“My mother always spoke of the rivers here,” Sansa said, sitting back on her haunches as she let her damp hair fall about her shoulders. “She said they could cleanse a burdened soul.”

“D’you feel cleansed?”

She let her hands drop to her lap, staring out at the glittering water.

“I don’t know what I am,” Sansa admitted quietly.

A few moments of silence passed between them, stretching on until Satin shifted to his feet.

“You got that hair from your mother, I assume,” he said, holding his hand out to her. “It’ll take another wash or two to set it to rights but the red’s shining through already.”

Unable to quite help herself, Sansa let a small smile tug at her lips as she took his hand, allowing him to help her to her feet.

“You have my thanks, ser,” she said, wrapping the cloth around the soap and reaching down to pick up the jug as well only for him to take both from her hands.

“I’m no knight,” Satin said, his eyes glimmering with amusement. “Only a whore from Oldstown turned brother of the Night’s Watch. Now I’m… well I suppose I don’t know what I am either, now that I think about it.”

“Jon told me how you defended the realm bravely in the War for the Dawn,” Sansa said as they wandered towards the camp once more, Ghost bounding ahead of them. “I’ve met a fair few knights who would have soiled themselves at the very thought of facing the enemies you fought. Believe me, you are better.”

Satin looked rather flattered at her words, standing a little taller as they walked side-by-side.

“It’s good that our prince chose the right woman to fancy,” he muttered thoughtfully as if he dangled a piece of bait before a fish. “Better you than that aunt of his. She’s a right piece of work, no matter how beautiful.”

Color rose to Sansa’s cheeks at the insinuation in his words.

“Jon is trying to protect me,” she said, shaking her head. “He is driven by little more than duty, believe me.”

Satin gave her a doubtful look.

“I’ve seen him do his duty, m’lady. It didn’t look anything like this.”

*****

“Daenerys has been exchanging letters with your uncle ever since her army liberated him from Casterly Rock. He expects us to arrive within a few days and knows now that you are with us.”

Sansa couldn’t help but frown, picking at the meat on her plate as she saw Jon moving around in the corner of her eye. Sometimes, it seemed as if he couldn’t quite remain still. He didn’t pace, but rather seemed to prowl about like a caged wolf. Though he told her that he’d been trapped in Ghost’s mind for a fair length of time before Stannis’ Red Woman brought him back, it was one thing to believe it and quite another to see the effects of it.

“Why are we going to Riverrun at all?” she wondered, glancing over at him. “If you intend to take King’s Landing, would it not be wise to do it sooner? Before you give Cersei more time to plot?”

“It won’t be the entire army, just a company of two hundred or so to escort us there. There isn’t time enough for Littlefinger’s trial and it makes little sense to drag him along with our camp to take supplies and rations from those who need them more. Your uncle has agreed to imprison him until the war is over.”

It made a peculiar bit of sense, for him to suffer in her mother’s childhood home after all the damage he’d done to Catelyn Stark’s family. Yet Sansa couldn’t help but fear that he might find a way to slip his chains before his trial. She knew very little of her uncle and wondered if he could be relied upon to keep Petyr locked away. Men could always be swayed with a bribe. Petyr taught her such a thing. Even if Edmure wasn’t susceptible to his machinations, it wasn’t entirely impossible that a guard or servant may prove to be more corruptible.

“Have you spoken with him?” Sansa asked, weighing her words carefully.

Jon’s head finally turned, his eyes settling upon her as he continued to move about in no discernible pattern. When he shook his head, relief filled her and she let out a soft sigh.

“Why?” he asked, finally stilling in place.

Sansa regarded him warily, wondering if he would take offense to her thoughts.

“He’s dangerous,” she told him.

A huff passed his lips as he crossed over to pour himself a cup of ale.

“He’s been stripped of all titles and power,” Jon said, taking a healthy sip of it. “He’s in chains.”

“Do you think that makes him less dangerous?” Sansa asked, hoping that he wasn’t so foolish. “A cornered animal can be every bit as nasty as a freed one.”

His eyes swept over her, seemingly considering her quite fully. Sansa felt exposed beneath his dark gaze in an odd way, nothing like she felt when Littlefinger or Joffrey or any other man looked her way for any length of time.

“He’ll never touch you again,” Jon said, his words a promise.

Sansa stared back at him for a long moment before setting her plate aside and rising to her feet. Whatever threats she faced were far less of a concern to the ones that loomed over him. One stood out in particular.

“Satin told me a bit more about the war in the North,” she said, walking over to him slowly.

Jon huffed once more, nodding his head as he looked away from her.

“Satin will always go out of his way to please a pretty face.”

She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling, briefly wondering if that was Satin’s opinion or his own. Chasing the thoughts away quickly, Sansa focused on saying her piece.

“I know that the Golden Company abandoned you in the midst of the war to sail back to Essos,” Sansa said, reaching his side to pour herself a cup of ale as well, no matter how ill-tasting it was to her. “Did Prince Aegon make no attempt to keep them close?”

He shook his head, watching as she sipped at the ale with interest in his eyes.

“They didn’t exactly plan to come here and fight an undead army in the midst of an endless night,” he said, though there was a derision to his voice that she’d come to expect when he even thought of the man that was meant to be his brother. “I’d expect no less from an army that sells itself to the highest bidder with little reason to protect the living of Westeros.”

Sansa set the cup down, looking at him even as he avoided her gaze, looking as if he might step away. It was a constant struggle ever since Daenerys agreed to betroth them. Though it had been his idea and he refused to back down from it even when his aunt questioned him, Sansa had to wonder if Jon resented her for putting him in such a situation. She felt the need to show him her use, that she could use all the lessons she’d learned to help him.

“How certain are you that Aegon is who he says he is?” she asked, her voice so quiet that only he could hear, just in case there were spies throughout the camp.

Jon’s eyes lifted, his brow furrowed as he stared at her with a frown.

“Varys attests to it,” he said, his voice just as quiet as hers.

“Lord Varys used to whisper in a different queen’s ear,” Sansa replied, unmoved by that detail. “When King Robert commanded that Daenerys be killed, who do you think sent word to the assassins?”

Jon blinked several times, glancing away from her. 

“He rides a dragon.”

Yet another flimsy shield against those who might question his true parentage. Anyone who knew history could refute it all too easily.

“We both learned of Rhaenyra and Aegon,” Sansa reminded him. “There were many dragonriders during their war and not all were purely descended from Targaryen bloodlines. They were bastards and the like. Gods know how many Blackfyres are scattered through Essos.”

Jon’s face grew dark and heavy as he placed his hands upon the table before them and bowed his head.

“You think that he is an imposter.”

Sansa considered her words before speaking, knowing well how they could spark something unintentional.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly, resisting the urge to turn away and have him forget she brought it up at all, for it needed to be said. “But if you are most certainly the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and there’s even the slightest chance that this Aegon is not, what would you do if you were him?”

Jon swallowed hard, still refusing to look her way.

“He’s had plenty of chances to kill me,” he said, shaking his head.

“He may never try but we cannot take that risk,” Sansa said.

“Would you have me kill him then?” Jon demanded, finally turning to face her with a storm building in his eyes. “Sacrifice my honor and condemn myself as a kinslayer because of  _ unfounded _ rumors.”

Sansa’s eyes grew wide as she shook her head, reaching out to him. She feared that he may flinch away from her but in spite of the anger written upon his face, he allowed her hands to settle delicately over his shoulders.

“I would never ask such a thing of you,” Sansa said, hoping that her words might reassure him. “I only meant… we have enough enemies in this world. I do believe that Littlefinger is still a threat because I know him. He has ways of fighting that very few understand. And leaving Cersei unmolested in King’s Landing for an extended period of time  _ is  _ dangerous. She is every bit as ruthless as her father, who had Robb and my mother killed at a wedding. Making an enemy of your own brother, whether he is truly who he says he is or not, is unwise. I can see that you dislike him and I am not asking that you pretend he is Robb or Bran. But we should do everything in our power to ensure his position is never questioned, lest he react with violence.”

Surprise flitted through Jon’s eyes, along with remorse as well. He seemed to regret his outburst, the tension in his body ebbing away as he breathed in deeply.

“A cornered animal can be every bit as nasty as a freed one,” he said, repeating her own words.

Sansa nodded, relieved now that he understood.

“Gods, Sansa,” Jon breathed out, his arms wrapping around her and pulling her into a gentle embrace. “I’m sorry.”

She let him enfold her in his arms without struggle, winding her own around his waist as she pressed her face into his shoulder. Looking back, Sansa could barely recall hugging him at Winterfell. It certainly hadn’t felt this comforting, or this desperate, if she ever did.

“I should be the one to apologize,” she said, pulling away only enough to look in his eyes, their arms still around one another. “I know that there were times that I treated you unkindly before, in our youth. Can you forgive me for it?”

Jon stared at her for a long moment and Sansa feared that he would spurn her remorse. But then he reached up, cupping her cheek gently in his hand, leaning forward slowly as her breath caught in her throat. Sansa’s eyes fluttered closed at the feeling of his lips upon her forehead, lingering there in a firm kiss for several long moments.

“We were children,” Jon said quietly, pulling away just enough to speak. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

Sansa’s eyes darted up, catching on his lips first. Lips that she’d envied as a girl, full and beautiful as they were. She allowed herself a moment or two to admire them, a simmering heat rising within her as she looked further up to his eyes, dark and inscrutable with no trace of Targaryen purple within them. Were it not for Howland Reed’s word and the horrible sense it all made, one might be forgiven for imagining that it was Jon who stood as a mummer’s dragon rather than his supposed brother.

“Shall-“ Jon’s voice came out with a certain toughness that tugged at something deep and unnamed within her, causing him to clear his throat before attempting to speak again. “Shall I escort you to your tent?”

The heat was suddenly washed away by a cold feeling. Sansa reluctantly stepped out of the reassuring shelter of his arms, aware of his possible discomfort.

“Not yet,” she said quietly, wringing her hands as she looked up at him warily. “I feel… safer here.”

A part of Sansa feared that he would insist, though she knew that he deserved far more credit than that. A softer look passed over his face as he nodded, giving her arm a gentle squeeze as he passed her in search of a chair to sit.

“What else did Satin tell you?” Jon asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as Sansa turned to face him, a curious glint in his eyes.

“Very little that you didn’t already mention,” Sansa said, lifting her skirts as she crossed over to sit in the other chair. “Only in more detail and rather dramatically at that.”

Jon huffed, a smile pulling at his usually solemn mouth as he shook his head in slow amusement. Sansa allowed a small smile of her own before it faded just as quickly.

“Thank you,” she said, earning a puzzled look at her sudden gratitude. “For not letting Stannis burn the godswood at Winterfell.”

The solemnity was back once more, along with traces of anger in his eyes.

“Winterfell would have felt wrong without it,” he said, his voice somewhat dark at the memory. “Though it isn’t the only reason I refused his offer. It belonged to you then as it does now.”

Sansa sank her teeth into her lower lip, guilt rising within her at the thought of her father. Of how she’d run to Cersei to tell her his plans without knowing what the consequences would be. She considered Lady, still so small when she died and buried in the lichyard at Winterfell. Was she a true Stark at all? Could she hold Winterfell? Would anyone even want her in her father’s seat?

“It should be you,” she said thoughtfully, glancing at Jon.

He looked surprised at her words and tempted to argue, though it would do little to change her mind. As if he sensed that, he breathed in deeply before answering her.

“We will take it for our family once more,” Jon said, stretching his hand out towards her. “Together.”

Watching him for a moment, Sansa could only see genuine intent in his eyes as well as she could hear a desperate need in his voice. When Petyr spoke of Winterfell, there was always a degree of selfish want in his words. Sansa could hear nothing of the sort with Jon. Only a desire to rest, same as her. Reaching out, she slid her hand into his and relished in the soothing warmth of it as he gripped her hand in a firm yet gentle grasp.

“Together,” she said in agreement, nodding her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts!


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